


Equal and Opposite

by pangodillO, Wholly_owned_subsidiary



Series: Newton's Third [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: BPD Cecil, Bondage, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Consensual Kink, Earl is--surprise!--also a Good Boyfriend, I will fight you for nonbinary Cecil, Other, Polyamory Negotiations, all Carloses are trans Carloses, sensory play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wholly_owned_subsidiary/pseuds/Wholly_owned_subsidiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos had hushed their stammering with a kiss. There was, he said, so much love in Cecil—so much everything, really, but love was the relevant part here. They were overflowing with enthusiasm and affection, he said, and it would be selfish of him to try to keep it all to himself.</p>
<p>And of course it wasn’t accurate—he was far from selfish, and anyway no amount of love and devotion was good enough for their wonderful Carlos. But Cecil said nothing more. Because Carlos did have an important and scientifically accurate point.</p>
<p>Which was: there was an awful lot in Cecil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal and Opposite

“It’s like—okay. When you were a kid, did you ever fake your own death?”

“Did I _what_?” Carlos set the cup down, stared at Cecil while he mopped up the tea he’d spilled with his sleeve. 

“You know, with the chalk outline and everything, but when no one’s looking your friend who’s about the same size lays down where you were and you hope no one notices so you can lay low and scare the kids who were playing Secret Police after they’ve gotten bored and moved on to, like, hopscotch or something?”

“No, Cecil, I—I can’t say that I did.”

“Okay. So—imagine a chalk outline.” And here they slipped into Radiovoice, smooth and deep and resonant and—safe. A voice you could build a home in. “And that outline, roughly, fits you. It was maybe even traced around you. But no one ever sees _you_. They see an outline. And there’s another outline, maybe a little closer, a little more snug and accurate, but it’s still not really right, and it’s hard to see anyway and so you—it’s just easier to let people see the first outline. Than explaining again and again, and then going over it all again when things change and—what?”

Carlos hadn’t noticed the face he was making. He knew Cecil’s tangents would always come back around, that they’d address his question eventually, make him understand—and he was beginning to. Carlos had been told _you can’t be a man_ plenty of times; no one had ever added, _because men aren’t real_. “And that’s why you let everyone around you use the wrong pronoun? Most people don’t even seem to try.”

“Well, Carlos, it’s not _wrong_. Per se. Sometimes it’s just—a bit less right.” They spooned sugar into their coffee, and the room was silent but for the thoughtful _tink-tink-tink_ of their stirring. “Usually it’s just confusing, that’s all. An awkward little moment of _who is he_ before I realize they’re looking at me.” They blew steam off the mug and mumbled, “it rarely even hurts.”

And that was technically true, after a fashion, but it still flared anger in Carlos’ belly. Carlos’ dysphoria was an overstuffed backpack, uncomfortable, throwing off his balance, and always, always there. But Cecil’s was a suckerpunch, knocking the wind out of them and unbalancing them for days. And then it eased off and they stood up and brushed themself off and strutted on like nothing had happened.

They were always in the present. The past was a myth, the future may never be allowed to happen; the ache didn’t exist until it was everything, and then as soon as it was gone it stopped being real again.

“But Earl—he’s been just. A real sport through everything. I mean, we’ve known each other for—” they gestured vaguely in lieu of offering an actual number. “And he’s always been kind. And patient. Caring and helpful—even when we aren’t having sex it’s just like, someone to lean against. A safe place to close one’s eyes.”

“That’s good,” Carlos conceded, “and I’m glad you have him, I’m glad he’s been there for you. But, love...”

He trailed off, and Cecil wavered. “But?” they prompted, looking down at their hands.

Carlos looked at their hands, too, elegant fingers tipped with sparkling purple polish, impeccably applied. Turning and turning and turning their mug, nerves looking for an outlet. He reached to cover their hands with his. “It’s just—I wish he wasn’t the only one. You deserve to be seen—you shouldn’t have to fight for it.”

Cecil’s hands went still under his, calm. “He’s not the only one,” they pointed out. “I have you, too. It’s—different. Some ways. But the respect is the same.”

“You should have it from everybody,” Carlos said, helpless and angry.

“Yes,” and it felt like an admission, like they didn’t entirely believe it. “But that’s not the world we live in.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I know.” He did; he’d left so many people behind. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t okay—but he couldn’t fix it for them.

“The things that are different, though,” Cecil said, delicately, and their hands started shifting again under Carlos’, twisting their mug. “About Earl.”

“Uh-huh?” There were a hundred ways Earl was different from Carlos; he couldn’t guess which they meant.

“Well, I just want you to know, he’s—I mean, I’m—Nothing’s going on,” Cecil finished in a rush. “Even if he pets my hair or calls me ‘pet’ or ‘precious’, or—or bosses me around? It’s not—I just wanted you to know it doesn’t mean anything. No—that’s not right. It means—well—a lot, I just. I want you to know I’m not being.” They swallowed. “Unfaithful.”

“I know,” Carlos said, perhaps a little hastier than was necessary. 

“So—.” Cecil cleared their throat, tapped their neatly filed nails against the mug. There was a moment of silence. 

“So?” Carlos prompted.

“So. We had talked about—about rules. About, um, relationship rules.”

“Okay,” Carlos said, slowly. He was just a little concerned about how unconcerned he was; their relationship was a living thing, growing with them, changing as they changed. And Cecil did not tolerate loneliness well, scrambled for contact. It was not enough to hear that they were loved—how _much_? How _deeply_? And how could they ensure it would _stay_?

The negotiation had started as a stopgap, although Cecil would not have characterized it as such. Carlos could feel their rising desperation in every communication, in the things they did not say. They blossomed under the constant sunshine of Carlos’ affection and validation; lacking that, they shriveled.

And Earl was _safe_ , and _there_ , and familiar. Earl was the only person he had heard use appropriate pronouns, had eyed Carlos suspiciously, as though he were interviewing for the role of Cecil’s boyfriend. And that had been uncomfortable at the time, before he understood it, that Earl wasn’t trying to claim them for himself, but to ensure that whoever they were with loved and respected them as much as Earl did. 

“It’s not—necessary,” Cecil was saying. “I would never do anything— _anything_ —that would jeopardize what we have. But if—if we formalized an arrangement, that might be. Something to consider.” 

Carlos nodded. “And you had Earl in mind, I assume?”

“That’s not—I just wanted you to know, I’m not trying to cover up any kind of—of misbehavior. I haven’t even talked to Earl about this possibility. But we have a certain. Um. Dynamic. And it’s worked very nicely for us,” they added, with a little circular gesture of the hand, “whether it involves each others’ genitals or... not.”

Carlos couldn’t help but snort in spite of himself. 

“What?” They bristled slightly, fidgeting in their chair.

“I’m sorry, babe, it’s just—god, you’re so _cute_.”

The fuss evaporated, a small and almost shy smile blossoming on their shining, slightly chapped lips. “Well thank you,” they said, and leaned back in their chair.

“So, if we decided to formalize this arrangement. What would that look like?”

“Oh—uh, well, there would be rules. That we’d set together. Like, it’s very important to _me_ that you don’t ever cancel a date we have to go on a date with someone else.”

“Who would ever—”

“It’s best to spell things like that out.” They looked away, made a face, and added under their breath, “trust me.” 

“What else?”

“Tell me if you’re going to be out all night, and, um, protection always with other partners, obviously, uh.” They laughed a little, self-conscious. “If I’d known we’d be doing this so quick I would have written some things down.”

So far it seemed like, well, like basic courtesy. Protect your partner, consider their feelings. 

“I think—I have a thought.” Carlos cringed at his own sentence construction, but pressed on. “I think I’d be more comfortable if I could—” _Approve?_ “—if we discussed your potential partners before you started seeing them.” 

Cecil’s face, with its shy smile, was suddenly very still, and their nails started tapping again. “Oh?”

“Not because I think you need my permission. But you, um. You don’t always make the best choices, in that department.” Carlos had heard offhand comments, half-finished stories about ex lovers and hookups and one-night stands, all of which indicated that Cecil’s sexual habits weren’t tied to attraction alone, and they had a tendency to expend a lot of emotional energy on people who didn’t deserve it. “I figured, if we talk it through together, before anything happens, maybe things will be more stable. And I’d do the same, if you wanted.”

Cecil’s expression melted into something a little less frozen. “You would?”

“I—yeah, of course I would. I want to know what you think.”

They smiled, a little shy, a little sly. “Is there anyone in particular about whom you’d like to know what I think?”

“What, for me? Not right now. I’d like to know what you think about Earl, though.”

Cecil managed to give the impression of uncomfortable shifting, without any movement. “What do _you_ think about Earl?”

“I think...” Carlos considered what he knew about Earl. It wasn’t much; he’d rather kept his distance since Carlos had been back in town. “I think he respects you,” he said finally. “I think it’s obvious he cares about you. I think I would like to get to know him better, but in the meantime, if you want to...” He grinned. “ _get involved_ with his genitals—or whatever—there’s no reason for you to wait until I’ve made friends with him.”

They smiled, a warm and soft little thing, but their eyes were still somewhat reserved, as though waiting for the _if_ , for the conditions of this gift. There was no reassuring them, not that they would believe anyway. In Carlos’ estimation, it would take several weeks of not suddenly forgetting the arrangement, or throwing this back at them in a fight, for them to settle into the idea that this was really okay. 

 

The restlessness was the worst thing of all. 

It was so good to be with Earl again, in this specific way, with Carlos’ explicit permission to be—well, to be like this. They had talked about love, a love Cecil still felt, distant and soft like a favorite old song stuck in their head; was it okay? 

And by all rights Carlos should have said no, should have been angry, betrayed, full of _how dare yous_ and threats to leave. But he didn’t even turn the light on. He’d snuggled closer into Cecil’s chest, kissed whatever skin was closest, and said, “You still love me?”

Cecil had pushed themself into a half-sitting position, nearly dislodging Carlos from his comfortable roost. Of course they loved Carlos! He was the most wonderful—the best—the sweetest little—

And Carlos had hushed their stammering with a kiss. There was, he said, so much love in Cecil—so much everything, really, but love was the relevant part here. They were overflowing with enthusiasm and affection, he said, and it would be selfish of him to try to keep it all to himself.

And of course it wasn’t accurate—he was far from selfish, and anyway no amount of love and devotion was good enough for their wonderful Carlos. But Cecil said nothing more. Because Carlos did have an important and scientifically accurate point.

Which was: there was an awful lot in Cecil.

So much sometimes that they threatened to burst at the seams, scattering emotions and memories and impulses like confetti, leaving nothing else behind. Sometimes they felt like their edges were blurring, smudged into the universe, unsure where everything else started and they stopped, an exposed nerve, vulnerable, transparent. 

And there was one thing Earl could do that Carlos could not. Earl created boundaries. He could hold Cecil in, create defining lines around their bleeding edges, reinforcing the seals, simplifying the chaos to _you are here, you are with me, you are my pet and you don’t have to be anything else right now._

This was something they’d worked with before, the restless swelling in their chest, so intense it was only barely qualified as _boredom_. 

Earl had offered a snack, and a movie, and a hot shower together, and each had been met with a shrug; they sat on the sofa and bounced their foot and looked around the room, fidgeting, restless. 

The last thing he had to offer was: cloth.

He had rope, of course, in various materials and of various colors, to stand out pretty against their skintone, to be soft or coarse as needed. But he also kept thick strips of cotton bedsheet, worn soft over the years of use, gentle against their delicate skin, wide enough to feel snug against them without biting. 

He had them on their back, bound simply, strips of cotton wound over their body. And he watched.

He watched them struggle, not to get out but to feel the closeness, pushing out against something that would not let go, would not falter. He watched them test their limbs, tighten and relax muscles, breathe deeply and move side to side to see how limited they were.

He watched and they felt his gaze on them, even with their eyes closed, and that was the second layer of restriction, the safety, the external control when they felt they had none of their own at all.

Satisfied with the all-over embrace of the cotton, they stilled, waiting.

Earl always waited just a little past what they were comfortable with, and they knew he would, but still they whined. It was just about intolerable, feeling his watching, knowing that he could do anything he wanted within their established limits, that he could act at any point and was simply choosing not to because watching Cecil struggle was _fun_. He would get there, the silence said, when he was good and ready, and no amount of whining could push him to move faster.

Still, it was satisfying, in its own way, to make a need known without any fear of punishment. They needed to be touched, and they might not get it when they wanted it, but it would come, and it was okay for them to ask for it, to need it. They heard the floorboards creak slightly under slow and heavy steps, felt the bed dip with Earl’s weight, and then there was nothing more. Finally, they opened their eyes. 

“Yes, precious?” Earl asked, just a little too innocent. His legs were crossed neatly, ankle over knee, comfortably taking up space; his hands were folded together in his lap. 

Cecil whined again, trying to push as close to Earl as they could within their bindings. But Earl knew they would, had positioned himself just out of the reach of skin contact. 

“Come on,” Cecil said, fidgeting again for the contact of the strips. “Please?”

“Please what?” 

Cecil huffed, wriggled again, toes curling with desperation. “You know—!” 

“Hmm?” Earl smiled a sweet, charming, innocent smile. 

“Touch me,” Cecil said, in a pout they felt no need to control. They had nothing to hide from Earl, after all. 

Earl—cruel, teasing Earl—reached out a single finger and gently prodded their leg. He left his finger just dimpling the flesh and said, “is that what you mean?”

Cecil threw their head back, closed their eyes, growled out a desperate little noise.

The mattress shifted again, and they sensed Earl move over them, very close but not touching. His breath tickled their ear as he whispered, “Cold water tastes sweetest when you’re very thirsty, pet.” And then he kissed their cheek and backed away from the bed, heavy footfalls and long stride. 

A long moment passed where nothing seemed to happen. Perhaps Earl was getting things together, setting out tools and toys. But, no, he usually set that up beforehand, he was thorough. Cecil opened their eyes.

He was just—standing there. Arms crossed, smiling in a gentle and distracted way. “You just look so lovely,” he said, softly, like he wasn’t aware he was speaking out loud. 

Cecil fidgeted again. “Early bird—” they said in a thin, high voice—desperation, tension, desire. “Please?” Was it begging he wanted?

After another long moment, he shook his head, and the previous expression was back, so innocent that it looped back around to deviousness. “As much as I love those big brown eyes turned on me, so sweet and absolutely desperate, I think I’d like you blindfolded. How do you feel about that?”

_Oh, wicked Earl!_

“After all, I don’t want you to have any unneeded distractions,” he said.

Cecil gasped, nodded. The vulnerability, the complete surrender, was intoxicating, and anyway it might bring them a step closer to the touch they’d been craving since Earl had guided them onto their back to bind them up. 

 

They always started quiet, or at least as quiet as they could be—little gasps and cooing noises, a soft laugh or a grunt. Their goal was to stay in control as long as possible, his was to get them to break.

Eventually, they always broke. 

He started slowly—the feathery thing, technically a cat toy, which was still pretty much like teasing even if it involved contact, and a few long, light strokes with his fingers. They were ticklish, and they giggled and cursed him, trying to see him even through the thick black fabric over their eyes. 

He knew this body. It liked teasing and tickling, it liked thud and sting and quick, light kisses and long, heavy love bites (although he would save those, for now, in case Carlos didn’t approve of them). He carefully avoided leaving lasting marks. 

They struggled and bit their lip and groaned behind their teeth and finally, finally cried out against a cold hand pinching one of their dark, sensitive nipples. 

And here they were, now, all the protective layers stripped away, past anxiety and false boldness and the shattered bits of self they were always wrapped in. Stripped to the skin, laid bare under his hands. His sweet, precious Cecil. His pet. 

_~~His best beloved—~~ _

Not now. _Focus_. Cecil had let go of their last desperate grasp of control, needed him to steer, to hold them together. He could pine later. 

They gasped at the movement of air over them, anticipating sensation without expectation—what would come would come, and it would be just what they needed. That, at least, he could still read. He tongued a wet kiss against one of their breasts, gentle suction, no teeth. His kisses trailed over, down their sternum, center of their chest. It didn’t seem fair to plant a kiss over their heart, although he suddenly, desperately wanted to. There were so many questions now—no, there was just one, fighting to be whispered against their warm and slightly damp skin, behind each sweat-salted kiss: _do you still love me, sweet darling?_

“Do you want to come?” he asked instead. 

A soft sound, half a sob.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” and this was a whisper, just audible.

“I can’t hear you—”

“ _Yes_ ,” they finally said, a desperate cry, and oh but they were completely undone, centered back in their body, in the confines of their skin, their nerves, their available senses. 

“Good,” Earl whispered against their chest. He rose, walked around the bed (quietly, this time, no need for Cecil to intuit where he was), then crawled up between their legs. He heard a soft, fragile little noise of expectation as his tongue slid over them. Teasing, always teasing at first, but they weren’t begging anymore; they were still, accepting, grateful for the touch they got, knowing fully that they were in loving hands, that they had been very good and would get their treat. 

What they liked hadn’t changed, what they responded to—they pushed up towards him when he pulled back, teasing with his tongue; they cried out when he pressed their hips roughly back into the mattress, pinning them still. He was aggressive but loving, unceasingly attentive to their needs, their pleasure, their preferences. 

Earl did not envy Carlos. Cecil deserved all the love in the world, and if Carlos could give it to them, respectful and sincere, Earl would shake his hand and walk away. If all he had was history, he would hold close to the muscle memory, the familiar terrain that he knew in his soul, even if it had changed over the years. 

They were loud when they came, not quite a scream but more than a moan, like something pulled from them with loving force (which, in essence, was what it was). He pushed the blindfold off and kissed them hard, their lips giving, willing. 

“Get me out,” they said, “please—I need—”

“What do you need, pet?” Earl already had the safety shears at hand, but this wasn’t a safeword, wasn’t panic. Still, he undid the knots quickly, kissing the red indents on their skin as they were freed. “What do you need?” he said again, murmured against one of their wrists.

“ _You_ ,” they said, raw and vulnerable. “Let me touch you. Please?” 

Earl finished unwrapping them ( _like a gift, a sweet treasure for me to find, but too precious to keep to myself_ ) and they pushed into his arms, reaching for his fly—

“Ah,” he said, extending a finger. “Not yet, precious. Water first.” 

Cecil was not so weak and blissful that they could not hold the bottle for themself, but all the same Earl twisted off the cap and held it to their lips, patient, watching them swallow. They didn’t cough or choke, he could still read their mouth, the bob of their throat, meet this need with seamless, loving care.

He capped the plastic bottle, set it back on the nightstand, then leaned back with a smile. “Go ahead, baby,” he said. 

Less frantic, now, Cecil slid to the floor, kneeling between his knees. They made a lovely picture, naked at his feet, while he was fully dressed, sliding their wide flat palms over his legs. 

There was nothing like the heat of their mouth on him, wet and yielding, eyes bright and pupils dilated, and they still knew him as well, and when to use their tongue, made the same appreciative, satisfied noise when he cupped the back of their head as he came, keeping them close—affectionate, not forceful. 

He sat up, breathing heavily, and they were still on their knees in front of him, eyes wide and glittering, smiling proudly, with just the littlest drip of come on their lip, and in that moment they were the most beautiful thing Earl had ever seen. 

 

Carlos had planned to stay late at the lab tonight, as long as his hyperfocus would let him. He’d expected it to be easy; he did it all the time on accident, after all.

It’s not that he was worried. He wasn’t even jealous, it was just very... distracting, thinking about what Earl and Cecil might be doing.

He gave up on hyperfocus around eleven (a far cry from the two or three AM he’d expected to work through) and stopped for dinner at the Moonlite All-Nite, to give them a little while longer to finish up.

The house was quiet when he entered, but lit. Carlos shut the door silently and set about making himself as unobtrusive as possible until Cecil or Earl came down. He could work on his laptop; and if they didn’t come down, if they’d decided to cosleep—that was all right. He’d sleep on the sofa. 

He’d barely settled with his computer when a step on the stair alerted him—just one step, on the bottom stair, and there was Earl looking at him. He must’ve descended silently, made a noise on purpose—

“I didn’t expect to see you until later,” Earl said, careful.

“Did I interrupt?”

“No, no, we were done.” Earl took another step into the room, glanced at Carlos’ laptop. “I told them you’d be there when they woke up, so—”

“I’ll go up now. They’re sleeping?”

“You wake up early,” Earl said. “You go to work in the mornings. They sleep in. I’m not saying go and sleep with them; I’m saying, be there when they wake up.”

Carlos frowned, then took out his phone. It was late, but he knew Rochelle wouldn’t see a text until morning; he typed out, Going to be in late tomorrow. In fact, don’t let me in the building before noon.

He turned the phone to show Earl and got a curt nod in return. “I’ll be busy at work till at least two,” Earl said, “but if they start to drop, contact me. Cecil knows my number.”

Carlos put his laptop aside and stood up, only hesitating a moment before offering his hand to shake. “Thank you,” he said, and tried not to bite his lip.

Earl looked at his hand in confusion before taking it. “What for? Sleeping with your boyfriend?”

“For taking care of them,” Carlos said. “For being there when I was too—self-absorbed, to see how much they were hurting. And yes, for this, for tonight. For making them happy. For not staying gone once I was back.”

“Huh,” Earl said, looking hard at Carlos. “I don’t do it for you.”

“’Course not. You do it for them. I still appreciate it, though.” 

Carlos walked Earl to the door, and then made good on his promise, switching off the lights and creeping up the stairs and into the bedroom in the dark. He moved slowly, eyes wide as though that would help, feet moving carefully along familiar paths and hands outstretched in case of a misstep.

His eyes adjusted as he stripped, layers falling to the floor—he’d deal with them tomorrow. Coat, shirt, shoes, jeans, and last the binder; he stretched and breathed deep and reached for the ceiling, and then crawled in under the blankets, fitting himself in against Cecil’s side.

They stirred, turning towards him, hands soft and seeking on his skin, holding him close, long sweeping strokes up and down his spine as they breathed his name sleepily into his hair. After a few passes they paused at his ribs, tracing lines—the imprints the binder left on his skin. “Carlos,” they murmured, faintly scolding, “have you been binding since this morning?”

“I took a break at lunch,” Carlos said; he did sometimes, if he thought he was going to work late, retreating back to the little studio above the lab for some privacy.

Their hands framed his ribs, eyes blinking open to look at him with concern. “Did you stretch? Did you breathe? How are your ribs?”

“I stretched, I breathed. My ribs are fine.” Carlos took one deep breath to demonstrate, let them feel his ribs rise and fall: not bruised, not cracked, not painful. “You know, Cecil, it’s not your job to—”

“Isn’t it, though?” Cecil’s thumb traced along one indented line. “Shouldn’t I take care of you?”

“Well—yes, but...” _Take care of_ meant aftercare, meant cuddling and warm drinks usually, and finger foods. “It’s not—” _kinky_ “—it’s my own thing, it’s nothing you have to carry.”

“Nooo,” Cecil said, slow, drawn-out like doubt. “I don’t _have_ to. You’re mine, though,” and did Carlos hear a hint of question there?, “what’s yours is mine, and you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

“Cecil,” he said, protesting; and then, after a beat, softer, “yes, Cecil.” It was only words; there was nothing around his ribs to loosen, no feeling of breathing easier by giving them this, by letting them share it. There was a... warmth, though, buoying, and he tangled his hands in their hair, pulled himself close, and pushed his forehead against their mouth. “I’m yours.” They were his, too, of course—every action had an equal and opposite reaction—but that was different, and separate, another thing for another time.

“My lovely Carlos,” they murmured, with only the faintest shades of their radio voice.


End file.
